“Would that be the NFL?” She climbs onto the bed. “Okay, big guy, relax. I’ll warm up the oil and see if I can rub out the pain.”
Her tone is back to casual, and I fucking hate it. I would rather have Syn’s hope and confusion, using those emotions to further understand her with. And that thought . . . Jesus, I’m a dick. A curious one.
Who is her father? Why didn’t she talk about him then and doesn’t now? Who is this Bounce dude and why can’t Syn tell me more about him and the kid with the same eye color as her? Is the kid Syn’s? She never answered the question as to who the father of the kid is. If it isn’t Grady, who knocked up Syn?
The bed under me bounces the same time Syn’s weight presses down on my ass, yanking me out of my hate fest for Bounce and whoever got Syn pregnant. I settle my temper, having this need to prove to Syn that I can get through life without a crutch, without her rings, without her by my side, should she decide I’m not worth the trouble.
She is disgusted by the number of women I’ve been with. Believes I’m a hot-tempered, out-of-control jerk. Is probably in the same camp as my parents. That I will never commit or be faithful to one girl.
Syn squirms and wiggles on my ass, and all thoughts of faithfulness and my parents fall to the wayside. The only thought in my head is: Damn, I wish we were naked.
Her smooth inner thighs would stroke my outer thighs. Her lips would be soft and warm as she drops kisses across my shoulders and down my spine while her nipples grazing my heated flesh would have pre-cum glistening on the head of my cock.
Syn moves down and straddles my legs, just above my knees. No. No. No. I was digging the heat from her pussy on my ass. Liked how her thighs clamped onto my waist. Can imagine her slender legs wrapped around me as I pound inside her sex.
But I cannot think or imagine worth a damn when she starts kneading my flesh in this ebb of pressure and release, pressure and release, and I am . . . oh, fuck, I am hard.
“Jesus, baby, that feels so good.”
I press my face into the mattress. Groan. Moan.
Press my crotch into the mattress’s softness, my mind deep diving into the gutters. Images upon images of me doing dirty things to Syn.
Me sliding my cock inside Syn’s tight wet pussy. Me fingering her until she comes. Her warm, wet mouth taking me in, sucking and slurping until the noises she makes and how her mouth fits tight like a fist around my cock has me shooting my hot cum in her mouth.
Fuck. Fuck. I drag my nose across the bed covers. Side to side. In and out. Fingers pumping in and out of her. My dick pumping in and out of her. Jesus, I can’t breathe. I am dizzy. Out of breath. I turn my head to the side and gulp in breaths of air.
“Syn?” Shit, I’m panting.
“Yes?”
“I’m good, babe.”
“Are you sure? I can keep going.”
“Pixie Dust, touch me more and I’ll be begging to be inside you.”
She hops off my legs so fast, the bed does this funky dip and release thing. Chuckling at the hot mess we got ourselves in, at the sweltering temperature between us, and how my B-man is not wanting to settle the fuck down, I flip onto my back and check out Syn with my eyes hooded.
My, my, she is beautiful, sexy, sophisticated, hardcore in her long-sleeve short dress with a neckline that dips to her belly button.
“You wearing a bra or panties, Syn?”
“None.”
Fuck me. I close my eyes. Swallow down my desire.
“I want you, Pixie Dust.”
Needing to gauge her reaction, I open my eyes. Her lips are parted. Color high on her cheeks. Not shy, she trails her gaze from my face, down the center of my chest, and lingers on the outline of my cock beneath my black slacks.
“You said we’re a work in progress. Wanting one another is us progressing further, isn’t it?”
“Yes, baby. But only if you want it.”
“What if I don’t?”
“I’m fine with you not wanting something, Syn.” I’m not. What she says hurts.
“I do want you, but you’re not good for me.”
“How so? Is it the number of girls I’ve been with? Or my temper?”
“Both.”
“What you see is what you get, Syn.”
“Are you sorry that you slept with all those girls? Sorry that you broke that guy’s arms and legs for hitting on your PA?”
Damn, she is going in for the kill.
“Do you want me to say I am? The thing is, I’m not. Being with them taught me a valuable lesson. Where there are no feelings, there’s no intimacy. I’m tired of waking up next to a girl I cannot for the life of me remember her name. Or going through my day feeling like shit for treating a girl so carelessly. Or feeling empty inside for having another meaningless fuck. Is that what you wanted to hear, Syn? To know that what I did eats me up inside day in and day out?”
I move off the bed and extend my hand to her.
“Let’s go make progress together, babe. Let’s go catch us a mother-effing douchebag.”
19
Syn
We take separate cars to the nightclub.
On the short drive over, I think through what Taron said. He’s not sorry for sleeping with all those women, but he does regret treating them the way he did, and that gives me hope. There doesn’t need to be a big-time reforming of the bad boy. He’s already doing so on his own, starting with acknowledging his feelings.
Taron feels empty after his hookups. Wants intimacy with the next girl he sleeps with. Is tired of going from one sex partner to the next.
We are similar after all. He is not a god. He’s mortal. Is craving a deeper connection with another person. Is done with casual sex and is looking for something more meaningful.
Whether this “more” lasts or not, I couldn’t give a care. What would matter most is that Taron and I give “us” a try again. That we are progressing from exes to friends to something more than we have ever been—lovers.
The Uber driver drives past the nightclub, and I tell him to park in the alley in the back.
When we drove by the front of Crimson Nightclub, I saw Taron in the middle of a swarm of women our age with a shit-eating grin on his face. If I were a man, I would have the same expression. The women are beautiful, long-legged, have glorious long hair and big breasts. The coeds are wearing itty bitty dresses that leave little to the imagination.
I’m not a fan of plunging necklines, a dress that will leave my ass bare should I bend over, or going out in public not wearing a bra or panties, but to catch a guy’s attention surrounded by throngs of beautiful women, I have to go to extremes.
The only part I am not showing is the snake and butterfly tattoo on my right arm. We’re at the back entrance, and after paying the driver, I get out of the car. At the door, I push the buzzer. Dom is expecting me, Midnight having called ahead.
The door swings open. The bald, tatted, and muscular bouncer on the other side gestures for me to follow him inside and up the steps that leads to Dom’s office. I’ve been here before with Midnight and Dare. Riley opted to stay in Dumas. One of the old people she likes spending time with was sick that weekend, and Riley stayed with him to make sure he didn’t get worse.
At the top of the stairs, the bouncer raps his knuckles on the door.
“Bring her in,” a man says from the other side of the door.
Dom’s voice is deep and authoritative. The bouncer turns the doorknob and waves me through. I walk across the carpeted floor and lower into the chair across from Dom. Dominic Costello is handsome. He reminds me of a younger Antonio Banderas. No wonder the women are crazy for him.
“How are you, Syn?”
“Good.”
“You look good, sweetheart.”
Said with a sexy accent. I smile. This man is too sexy for his own good.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Sir?” He laughs. “I’m not that much older than you, beautiful.”
“You are
such a liar. Midnight said you’re closer to your forties.”
“Still young.”
“Still closer to my dad’s age.”
“Holy fuck, really?”
“Yes. My dad is thirty-nine.”
“That means he had you—”
“Got my mom pregnant when they were seventeen. He turned eighteen after I was born,” I said, saving him from doing the math in his head.
He has enough to deal with, the crowd surging close to capacity from the line that goes around the block, as well as the crowds that will show up later after the gala finishes in an hour.
Crimson is the only nightclub in proximity to the convention center.
“Midnight texted something about you pointing out the guy to me?”
“Yeah, come over here. Sit on my lap, why don’t you?” He pats his lap, his dark eyes gleaming. I roll my eyes. He barks laughter. “JK.”
Just kidding. As if he had to spell it out. He rises from his chair, then brings a rolling chair from the corner of the room and puts it next to his. I take a seat, and hunched forward, I study the images on the screen with Dom. He zooms in until he finds who he is looking for.
“Here he is. He’s been here every Friday and Saturday.”
“Every one of them?” This guy can’t be the one who assaulted Natalie. On the drive to Alexandria, Taron and I exchanged notes.
I pull out my cell phone from my little over-the-chest purse, go to my calendar, and find the Saturday that Taron’s roommates threw the party for him.
“Except for one Saturday.”
My head snaps up. Which Saturday? The one of the party? My heart beats fast like hummingbird wings.
“Which one?” Or the better question would be, “How do you keep track of who and on which days? Tons of people go in and out of here.”
“I noticed for one reason. The guy with him. This dude sticks out like blood in snow.”
I tip closer to the screen. See exactly what Dom means. Suck in a breath when I see him. Hunter. Buzz cut on the sides. Mohawk in my favorite shade of polish, midnight blue. Inked on his neck and arms.
His cousin Rhett is the one with the snake and butterfly tattoo? He assaulted Natalie? When I was with Rhett and Hunter, they were inked, but they did not have on their flesh my friends’ symbol of friendship.
The four of us contributed our part to that symbol. Midnight came up with the snake. He says they are cunning, lethal, brutal, but also harmless and helpful.
Like what? I had asked. I detest snakes. And to have one inked on me? Uh-uh. Until he told me of garter or garden snakes. They help the environment and gardeners by eating rats and insects. Okay, I am fine with having a snake on my skin. Except Midnight went with a fierce snake, the most venomous snake, a black mamba. Of course he would pick a black mamba. Black is his favorite color.
Riley went with a butterfly, a creature that starts out as an ugly worm that transforms into a thing of beauty. I picked blood red for the butterfly wings. Dare chose royal blue. He later told me his family crest is made up of the colors red and blue.
I follow the guys’ movements on the screen. What’s changed from then to now with the tats? And what did I do to piss off the universe that my ex-boyfriend and his cousin are in my neck of the woods?
This is not good. Rhett can be the biggest jerk, but there is no way he is capable of drugging and raping a woman.
I stand up so fast, the chair rolls back and hits Dom’s desk.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
“Migraine coming on. I get these auras.” Crap, I will go to hell for lying to Midnight’s friend, but I am in no mood to revisit my past by running into those two again.
I cram the heel of my palm against my temple. Close my eyes. Inhale and exhale so deeply, I’m certain my chest visibly rises and falls.
“Do you mind calling me an Uber?”
“I can do you one better. Let me take you back to your hotel, Syn.”
His chair creaks. I feel his body heat before his hand grasps on to mine. Opening my eyes, I take him up on his offer. Dom calls for the bouncer to bring his SUV to the back door.
With his arm curved on the small of my back, he helps me down the stairs. At the car, he guides me in, offering me his arm to hold on to as I grasp the hem of my dress to keep it from riding up. Dom is a gentleman, but he is still a man, and I don’t miss the smolder in his dark eyes before the lights inside the SUV shut off as soon as the door closes behind us.
“Where you staying?” He buckles my seatbelt, then does his.
I give him the address. Send Taron a text message.
“Migraine. Dom driving me home. Sorry. Let’s try again tomorrow. Have fun.”
As soon as my message is delivered, my cell phone rings. I glance at the screen. It’s Taron.
“Hello.”
“Want me to head back?”
“No, you stay and have fun. I’ll be a bore anyway, lying in a dark room. I’ll take some meds and call it a night. Do you have your room key?”
“In my pocket.”
“I want in more than your pocket, big guy,” I hear on the other end of the line, followed by Taron’s chuckle. The woman squeals as though someone squeezed her ass and she is surprised and turned on.
Gritting my teeth, I tip back my head and close my eyes. I shouldn’t be jealous or angry. Taron isn’t my guy. Also not his fault he is such a chick magnet with his panty-melting body and good looks. He epitomizes tall, dark, and handsome.
“Go have a good time, Taron. I’ll see you in the morning.”
20
Syn
I dreamt of him again. Have been doing so nightly since finding out he was in Dumas. Taron’s large body takes up sizable surface area on my full-size bed.
I am curled into him with my chest to his back and my leg slung over his hip. I love how perfectly we fit. How his large hand covers my small one when I slide my arm under his and tunnel my fingers in his chest hair.
So soft, his hair. Springy too. What about the rest of his body? I would like to know. I trail my fingers down the center of his torso, lingering on the ridges of his six-pack abs. Hard muscles. Soft skin. Warm flesh. Hot. I am burning up from the inside out, and I need more. I need to touch myself. To feel the stickiness of my arousal on my fingers as I come, hard, moaning Taron’s name.
I need to shed my undies and tank top. I am not someone who sleeps well nude. I pull away from Taron, missing his body heat the instant I’m on my back, shimming off my undies and yanking my tank top over my head. Realizing this is a dream, I leave my clothes wherever they fall on the bed.
Were I awake, I would hop out of bed and drop them in the hamper in my room. Or the bathroom. Messy isn’t my thing, either. I am so happy this is a dream and there isn’t sticky sex aftermath to worry about. Smiling, I curl into Taron’s body and slip my arm under his muscular one.
I am back to where we were. Back to gaining some traction and some progress. I’ve gotten this far in my dreams of him, but never all the way. This time, I want to go all the way.
His hand covers mine, and I tremble. His thumb skims my finger, and I moan. A simple touch. But oh so hot. Simmering. Sweltering. Steamy. I can go on and on, but the instant he guides my fingers down his body, I let go of the control I have on my brain. Let go of the insecurities that make me not like sex.
Am I good enough? Is he thinking of some other girl while he’s with me? Do I smell good? Taste good? What if I make a weird noise and he laughs? What if my body makes a weird noise before, during, or after sex? What if I bleed afterward? Will he think I’m strange? What if he doesn’t like the feel of my lip ring on his erection?
Let go.
Let go.
Don’t think. Just feel.
I feel the velvety tip of his cock.
Feel his groan of desire straight through to my core when I coast my fingertip over the bulbous head. Feel the give of his boxers as he covers my hand with his, guiding me up and down the length of his
thickness.
“Syn, baby, I want you.”
“I want you too.”
This dream is hot. So real. The heat from his body. His erection pulsing beneath my fingertips. His groan as I caress up and down his thick shaft before cupping his balls. I play with their weight in my fingers. Bite down on my smile when he sucks in a breath.
“Let me taste you.”
“Syn, you don’t need to. We can cuddle instead.”
This is my dream and no way will I settle for lame cuddling.
“Get on your back.”
“You don’t like sex, Pixie Dust.”
He is protesting too much for this being a dream. My dream. “Help me change my mind.” I slide my arm from under his and edge back, giving him room to change positions.
Getting on his back, he strips off his boxers. I balance on my elbow and stare at Taron’s erection. He is thicker than I remember. Then again, he isn’t the teenage boy I fell head over heels for. He is all man, and I want him so badly.
I crave for him to take away the ache between my legs. To do something about the heaviness in my breasts. For him to cover my hardened nipples with his mouth.
The hot gaze he shoots me tells me he wants to do everything possible that’ll get me to change my mind about disliking sex. What don’t I like about sex?
“What don’t you like about sex?”
Taron is voicing my thoughts. Of course he is. This is my dream. I have control over what I dream. I answer him truthfully.
“Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.”
“Come again?”
“I would like to have one of those. Or two or three.”
He chuckles. “Syn, babe, I had a little too much to drink and am mentally and physically exhausted. Spell it out for me, Pixie Dust.”
“The guys I’ve been with just wanted to get their penis inside me, get off, and then roll over and fall asleep. They didn’t care that I didn’t come.”
Give You Up (Dumas University Book 1) Page 11
